Door County Part Two

Taylor, me and Uncle Ron at Cave Point Park

When I got to Door County Friday I did the usual hugs, and I even let Aunt Judy rub my belly. Just a little. We chatted for a little while, all of them giving me their input about names. (Uncle Ron suggested that I name my son Samuel with a middle name that starts with an A so his initials would be S.A.M. I told him that was exactly the joke Jimmy Joe would have told.)

Inside Taylor and I rolled our eyes and watched the circus of the three grandparents cooking, TT and her sister singing and debating over how to make Ann’s famous dill sauce while Uncle Ron escaped outside to grill the fish (your mother’s idea, Johnny). We sat down to a dinner that started with TT’s famous fresh summer salad and ended with Mom raving about the fish and the dill sauce over and over.

“And I don’t even like fish,” she said as she took her fourth piece of tender, pink salmon.

Mom, Uncle Ron, Taylor and Aunt Judy before digging in.

After we were full, we sat and picked at the remains on the serving dishes and mom continued to dip her finger in the dill sauce (“I could put that on the steak tomorrow,” she said). TT and I argued over who would sleep where. She insisted on sleeping on the couch and giving me her bed, telling me that last night she woke up to read at 11, 1, 3, and 5 anyway… and in between those times she got up to pee. “Odds I’d read. Evens I’d pee,” she said. I told her THAT was going on the blog. It seems we're on the same schedule.

The three of them laughed about how this family always enjoys talking about bodily functions and how much fun it’s going to be to teach that to my son. Taylor went to the living room to watch TV, and I rolled my eyes and started washing dishes.

After dinner we sat around a beach bonfire and played a round robin story-writing game that resulted in a tale of a spaceship coming down from the sky so aliens could urinate on our fire and compare the smell of morning breath to a skunk.

The evening ended with Uncle Ron and I sitting by the last embers of the fire while the moon that peeked through the clouds reflected off Lake Michigan. I could hear the waves slapping the nearby shore, and as Uncle Ron told me about the miracles of his grandchildren – the way Taylor focuses at basketball, how he knew how strong Jack was and everything with him would be okay, how Malia brings him to the big front window to watch motorcycles on Ravine Road—my own child put the flutter-flutter-flutter behind him and moved on to his first real firm kicks. Uncle Ron continued to tell stories of Julie and Johnny and Michael and how proud he was of each and every one of his children, and I sat content with my hand resting on my belly feeling the solid kicks that had me imagining a real knee bending and unwinding to connect a foot with its surroundings.

Earlier in the evening Mom and Aunt Judy and Uncle Ron had joked about who the matriarch and patriarch of the family were and who would be in the future, who would outlive who. And as I sat there feeling amazed by my son unwinding to punch and kick, I realized how much I love and enjoy these people, and how much I hope all of them are still around years from now so my son will get to love and enjoy them as much as I do.